![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKaO_M005ZEfl5rc6mZWVmuldTF-E6kCxjxlKNoIPb3rHWaumE8Q7PBrRa7-gOzmmoKRto-ulgJhyphenhyphenUw8WnPn6XdNBY_LuhcmgmVonwgx7pj0bgfCpHyrY2cqDlpKXWFpqdVtekYleON_E/w325-h363/tricia.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFT5nuDvRFC0MdLfqJqk1hGCZaFyRCGlUrKp65AW-XqWIW71C1eYOSKKy4bxm8IgDCUpWH20jnxNi5pGYAgFBeCJX5MSCIoSXprwMuW3YtLGmvWqmb_sgUF7OTaEuIkjFbDMf0v3FhTw/w315-h363/tricia2.jpg)
Bend, smile, pout… for someone who, by virtue of her job as a photographic assistant, is supposedly more at home behind the lens, Tricia Passam seems remarkably confident flouncing around in front of it. FHM smells an extra-curricular rat. “You’ve got me,” smiles Tricia. “My boyfriend has shot me recently. You should thank him. Without him I wouldn’t have had the confidence to enter, let alone pose.” Grudging thanks, indeed.